What Do You Want From Me?
by TheReturned
Summary: Intrigued by his 'heterosexual' male friend's apparent interest in Lestrade, Sherlock decides the hypothesis needs further analysis. However, when he quickly realises his initial theory is slightly incorrect, and faces up to his own previously hidden desires, he panics. Pre-slash to slash, Johnlock, rating for future chapters.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Just a little fic - will probably be 3 or 4 chapters - because apparently I cannot work on just one thing at a time. Sucker for punishment. Anyway, hope you enjoy.**

* * *

The first time Sherlock noticed it was in Dartmoor. To be fair, it would have been hard to miss.

As they had approached the inn, all thoughts of the possibility of HOUND being an acronym and the chance of a small but, perhaps significant, breakthrough were forgotten as his eyes fell on the shockingly tanned Detective Inspector grinning inanely at him from behind a ridiculous pair of sunglasses. He was clearly checking up on them, sent by Mycroft presumably, and Sherlock felt a sense of rage coursing through him at the obvious nannying.

"What the hell are you doing here?!" he bellowed, storming in through the slightly-too-low doorway and glaring at the unwelcome guest, eyes raking up and down, intending to be intimidating. But Lestrade didn't seem bothered, removing his shades and sighing.

"Oh, nice to see you too. I'm on holiday, would you believe," he tried, but Sherlock scoffed.

"No, I wouldn't," he replied, as John finally followed him in, glancing up at Lestrade and smiling. Sherlock caught the look between the two men and was temporarily sidetracked, and vaguely registered John calling him "Greg" in response to Lestrade's greeting.

He had obviously directed a question Sherlock's way, as he was now looking at him expectantly. Sherlock quickly banished his thoughts to the back of his mind, refusing to examine them at that point, and, to hide his momentary lapse in concentration, shot back at Lestrade with another demand as to why he was there.

"I've told you, I'm on holiday."

"You're brown as a nut! You're clearly just back from your holiday!" Sherlock exclaimed.

"Well, maybe I fancied another one," he retorted.

Sherlock snapped then. "This is Mycroft, isn't it?" He didn't wait to listen to Lestrade's protestations, but bulldozered over them. "Of course it is. One mention of Baskerville and he sends down my handler to spy on me, incognito. Is that why you're calling yourself Greg?"

Then John, silent up until this point, interjected, a slightly annoyed look on his face. "Sherlock, that's his name!"

Sherlock blinked. "Is it?"

The conversation continued, with John having a brainwave over how "Greg" could help them, and Sherlock casually but surreptitiously drugging John's coffee (all very necessary for the case, obviously). After the two men running the hotel had been spoken to, Lestrade loped off to find a local police officer. Sherlock watched as John's eyes followed the D.I as he moved away, and didn't fail to notice his eyes becoming ever so slightly unfocused - something that probably would have been missed by anyone who wasn't looking.

Eventually managing to tear his eyes away, John turned back to Sherlock, smiling slightly. "He's right, isn't he? It's nice... the three of us here, outside London?"

Sherlock eyed him coolly. "I can always disappear if you like, leave you and _Greg_ to solve this one yourself. Wouldn't want to be a third wheel," he snapped, before stalking off, not looking back at his rather confused friend who, after a few seconds, dutifully followed him.

* * *

Back in London, Sherlock continued to observe the interactions between his blogger and the D.I. There was nothing obvious between them, and Sherlock was fairly sure there was nothing going on at all, but he couldn't help noticing the way that both of them looked at each other when they thought no one else was watching. He picked up on a slight sigh escaping one of the other's lips, a tug of a shirt collar, an unnecessary giggle at a poorly-constructed joke. It baffled him to see the man who he had been led to believe was completely and utterly heterosexual go weak at the knees around the very much male Lestrade.

He quickly realised that he was not present at most of John and Greg's social interactions - in the pub, watching football or playing pool. Sitting at the kitchen table, he drummed his fingers against the wooden panels, weighing up in his mind whether it would be worth entering such an establishment to further his observations. He briefly wondered whether John would maybe be alarmed at his request to join him for one of their drinking sessions, but then quickly decided that he didn't much care whether he would be or not. The only question was, whether this was interesting enough to warrant him making such a sacrifice.

The answer quickly made itself known - yes, it was most certainly interesting enough. It was John after all, and the two men _had _established that they were now friends back at Dartmoor. It was perfectly reasonable for Sherlock to take an interest in the type of people that John was attracted to, wasn't it?

He didn't have much time to ponder on that, as John chose that very minute to appear from the bathroom, dressed casually and clearly ready for a night of drinking. He was wearing slightly-too-strong aftershave and his clothing screamed "football night". Some international match, clearly, judging by the time. Suppressing an inner shudder at the thought of 90 minutes of tedium for the chance to further his 'investigation', Sherlock glanced up at his friend, who was clearly just about to announce his immediate departure.

"I'm coming too, give me two minutes."

John gaped at him like a goldfish, a look that Sherlock found briefly amusing and then rapidly vapid. Shaking his head slightly, John apparently remembered how to form sentences, as he stuttered "b..but you... but it's football! Conversation! Other... people!"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "I am aware of the concept, John."

His friend's eyes suddenly hardened. "You're not going to embarrass me, or... or drug me again, are you?"

He rolled his own eyes. "John, how many times? It was for an experiment, and I think you've made it perfectly clear that drugging you is in your A Bit Not Good column, so I will endeavour to make sure that I don't do it again."

John muttered something about endeavouring not being bloody good enough, but his shoulders relaxed a little and he didn't look so concerned, nodding his agreement that he would wait for Sherlock to get ready.

"But you've got quite literally two minutes Sherlock, the game starts soon!"

Sherlock was ready in a matter of seconds, having only to remove the dressing gown that was covering the outfit he had already put on in anticipation of going out that night. When he returned into the main living area, he noted John's eyebrows rise astonishingly high, taking in his unusually casual attire.

"Will this not do?" he asked haughtily, checking himself quickly in the mirror.

John shook his head slowly, before gracing Sherlock with a quick smile. "No, no, it's fine," he assured him. "I've just... I don't think I've ever seen you wearing jeans before."

Sherlock huffed. "It's hardly a massive revelation John. Surely you must have known that even I own a pair of denim trousers? I would estimate that a significant majority of the population do."

"Just because a _significant majority _do something, it has absolutely no basis on whether you do it," John pointed out, grabbing his coat from the back of a chair and following Sherlock down the stairs. "You hate the majority. In fact, you hate everyone."

The consulting detective grabbed his own coat from the hook and glanced at John as he arrived at the bottom step. "Not quite everyone, John," he smiled, giving his friend a quick wink before opening the front door with a flourish, completely missing the bemused look on the doctor's face.

* * *

Nothing. Absolutely nothing. The tedium had reached almost unbearable levels, and Sherlock had gained no new information from the past thirty minutes. Thirty minutes - was that really all it had been?

He and John had arrived a couple of minutes before Lestrade, and were already seated with their drinks (beer for John, orange juice for Sherlock) when the detective inspector joined them. He had made a ridiculous deal out of the fact that Sherlock was there, but didn't appear to mind (not that Sherlock would have cared either way) and was quick to fetch his own pint from the bar before sitting down opposite John, grinning at them both.

"How'd you manage to drag him out then?" he asked John, after they had sat through most of the first half of the game, Sherlock beginning to wonder if he would get away with just getting up and walking out of the pub.

John glanced at Sherlock, before turning back to his friend. "I didn't," he replied honestly. "He asked to come."

Sherlock sighed. "Beginning to wonder why I bothered," he complained, staring dolefully at his empty glass, but not bothering to go and get another. "Is this all you do, just sit and watch 22 overpaid idiots kick a ball around for an hour and a half?"

"Whilst checking out the ladies," Lestrade grinned, raising an eyebrow at John as he drained his pint. "Isn't that right, John?"

"Hmm," John said, smiling slightly.

Sherlock's ears pricked up, but he said nothing, waiting to see if any information would be forthcoming.

"Of course, Dr. Watson tends to be more broad-minded these days," Greg chuckled, and Sherlock noted the angry, slightly embarrassed look he received for that remark.

"Is that so?" Sherlock ventured, eyes travelling between Annoyed John and Guilty Lestrade.

"Ah, sorry John," Greg muttered, motioning towards his glass. "Drink must've loosened my tongue. I'll, err, go and get myself a soft drink, I think."

The air felt tense once the detective had disappeared to the bar, and Sherlock hummed, tapping the fingers of one hand on his other arm and being careful not to look at John, sensing his embarrassment. He was surprised when his friend cleared his throat and began to talk.

"Look, I didn't not tell you for any particular reason," he said. "I just... I guess I liked having one thing in my life as a secret from you, and you didn't appear to have deduced it at any point. There's no conspiracy, it's just... having a little privacy, I guess."

Sherlock coughed and then turned to face John, who was staring into his half-drunk pint, looking slightly troubled. "So, you're.."

"Bisexual."

"Ah." Sherlock nodded, quickly storing that new piece of information in his 'John Room', and then pausing to briefly examine the fact that John had his own room in his mind palace. It wasn't that surprising, he figured - after all, John was his only, true, friend. There needed to be some way of distinguishing him from, say, Lestrade (who had a cupboard) and Mycroft (matchbox).

He realised that John had started talking again, and quickly set about returning his attention to him.

"... I tend to favour women, but recently..." John inhaled slightly and then exhaled. "Things have changed."

Sherlock nodded. "I had begun to notice actually, John. You really should have realised by now that you can't keep things from me. I've seen how you and Gavin are together."

John quirked an eyebrow. "Gavin?"

"Lestrade."

"Greg."

"Whatever. See, you even remember his name."

John laughed. "Remembering someone's name is not an indication that you fancy them, Sherlock," he huffed, and Sherlock noticed that his blogger seemed suddenly far more relaxed. "Greg is lovely, and definitely attractive, but he's not my type."

"Oh." Sherlock thought for a minute, raking back over the conversation. John said that things had changed recently, from wanting women to, presumably, being more attracted to men. A man. Not Greg. Then...

"Everything okay?" Lestrade asked, sitting back down with them and smiling hesitantly. "I didn't cause any major problems, did I?"

"No, course not," John said hurriedly, sipping at his pint. Sherlock stood, shoving his hands in his pockets, and squeezed out from the table, brushing past John, retrieving his jacket as he went.

"I should... probably get home just now," he muttered, carelessly throwing the jacket over his shoulders. "Catch you later." He ignored both men's questions as he slinked away from them and towards the door, suddenly desperate for some air.

* * *

**Please review if you would be so kind. They give me energy.**


	2. Chapter 2

John watched his friend leave and sighed heavily, turning back round to face the detective inspector. He had no idea why he'd thought that confiding in Sherlock about _anything _would be a good idea, especially when it came to his sexuality. And how far had he been thinking he would go? Leave it at just stating the facts about the sort of people he was attracted to? Confess to something a little deeper? He groaned as he recollected the look of shock that had passed over Sherlock's face, as, John guessed, realisation had dawned on him. He shouldn't have even confirmed his bisexuality to him; should have just left him guessing, wondering if Greg really was the object of his affections.

"Sorry John," the man himself said, speaking suddenly and distracting John from his thoughts. "I dropped you in it a bit there, didn't I?"

He grimaced and took up his pint again, staring at it. "Nah, it's alright," he said. "Would have come out sooner or later."

Greg smiled slightly, still looking a little guilty, and John took a quick sip of his drink before carrying on. "Seriously, Greg, don't worry about it. It's fine." He inhaled slightly. "If nothing else, it's made me realise that I'm fighting a losing battle with that one. I can stop wasting my time and focus on other people."

Greg looked thoughtful. "I wouldn't be so quick to dismiss him," he said carefully. "God only knows, Sherlock hasn't had any action in years, not as far as I'm aware anyway. I flatter myself that I would have noticed if he was loved up. The idea of being intimate with someone probably is terrifying for him."

The chatter continued around him as both men half-watched the football game. Greg went back to the bar to get another round in, reverting back to alcohol this time, and John allowed his thoughts to wander every so often back to Sherlock. He decided the best course of action was to deny everything. If Sherlock felt awkward about it, he would happily go along with the denial, and they could continue to live together, which John was positive Sherlock wanted, and what he wanted as well. He'd get over his crush, continue working with him and find someone new.

He glanced at his phone every now and then to see if Sherlock had tried to contact him, but there were never any messages, despite the full signal his mobile carried. He contemplated sending him a text himself, but then decided against it. Better to let him simmer for a while, and then waltz in at some point later on tonight like nothing had happened.

* * *

The door opened with a crash, and Sherlock jumped out of his armchair, shaken out of his reverie, suddenly assaulted with the image of Lestrade and John holding each other up in his doorway. He recoiled slightly as he recognised the overbearing smell of alcohol emanating from the pair of them, and quickly deduced that the two of them were as pissed as newts. Lestrade was leaning against the frame of the door, an arm wrapped around John's waist, and both of them were 'singing' some god-awful chant that Sherlock presumed had something to do with the match that had been on.

"Well, I can see the ever-responsible policeman and his sensible doctor friend have had a lovely evening," he said scathingly, moving towards the kitchen. "Would either of you care for several litres of water?"

"Sheee... I told you," John slurred. "He can be very... very caring... he dush care, really Gregory..."

Greg snorted and somehow managed to make his way to the sofa, leaving John stood propped up against the wall. The doctor slithered along it, as if terrified that, should he let go, he would immediately collapse on the floor, and peeked round the corner at Sherlock, who was stood in the kitchen, staring in bemusement at the pair of them.

"Am I not allowed..." John trailed off, looking confused suddenly. "Oh fuck it, I can't remember what I wash... ssssaying."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him. "John, I don't care remotely about what you do or don't do in your spare time, unless you're supposed to be helping me on a case. Which you may well be tomorrow, hence the reason why I have offered you water, so that your hangover is possibly lessened a little and you won't be such a massive inconvenience." He spun on his heel and made his way to the cupboard that he was pretty sure the clean glasses were kept in.

"See John?... Nasty as ever... Always so horrible to you..." Greg mumbled, his head drooping into his chest as he lay sprawled back on the sofa.

"N..no... no!" John exclaimed, staggering across the floor to Sherlock and falling against him. Sherlock groaned, rolling his eyes, and manoeuvred himself so that he was stood with his back against the cabinets, holding John up with one hand and a glass of water in the other. John was lolling - there was really no other word to describe it - his side dug into Sherlock's torso, an affronted look on his face that Sherlock allowed his brain to register as ridiculous and yet somehow quite adorable.

"He is not... horrible," John growled. "You all... you at Scotland... in Scotland, you all see him as a so-sho-path, but he is... He is not a... one of those," he ended triumphantly. Sherlock managed to move John to a seat and somehow get him to sit in it, before plonking the glass in front of him.

"Thanks John," he muttered. "Should I ever need a glowing character reference, you'll be the first one I call."

John grinned at him. "You can count on me, Sherl."

Their eyes locked - well, as well as two sets of eyes could lock when one pair were struggling to focus on anything - and Sherlock, before he even realised what he was doing, placed his hand on John's good shoulder and squeezed it slightly. Even in his drunken haze, John looked briefly surprised at the contact - Sherlock wasn't sure why, he touched him all the time, although more often than not it was during a moment of panic whilst chasing a criminal, or being chased. Then he realised that John would have been expecting Sherlock to be keeping his distance from him, after his almost-confession earlier in the pub, and he withdrew his hand, not wanting to confuse matters any further.

Greg, who had been watching this exchange, and had somehow realised there was some slight significance to it, made an attempt to stand up, clutching onto the arm of the couch as he steadied himself in a more upright position.

"I think I'll leave... you two... you need a chat, yeah?" he said, rubbing his hand across his face, trying to make himself more alert. "I'm sorry I made things awkward... you know..."

Sherlock, ignoring Greg's apology, shook his head slightly. "I don't think so, Detective Inspector. Can't let you wander the streets in the state you're in. I'm surprised you two made it back here in one piece."

"I'll get a cab," Greg protested. "I'll be fine, Sherlock."

"Let him... cab," John stuttered, before taking a glug from his water.

After a brief debate with himself (neither of the two men present were capable of anything close to such a thing), Sherlock finally decided that it would be better to get rid of the policeman and concentrate on keeping an eye on John. He could barely deal with one drunken idiot, let alone two, and he was mildly concerned at how drunk John appeared to be, having never seen him in this state before. Greg seemed slightly less intoxicated, probably used to drinking more often than the doctor was, and once he had had a coffee he even managed to make it down the stairs of the flat without falling over.

Lestrade gone, Sherlock returned his attentions to his flatmate, who was now resting his head on his arms, which were folded on the kitchen table. The revelations of earlier had indeed alarmed Sherlock, but he still wasn't sure what he was alarmed at most; being wrong, or discovering that _he _was the one that John was attracted to. It still didn't explain the looks between John and Greg that he had definitely witnessed, but he allowed that to slide for now.

Seating himself back in his armchair, facing towards John's slumped form in the kitchen, Sherlock closed his eyes and steepled his fingers under his chin, his favoured thinking position. Having never really allowed himself the chance to consider anyone in... well, in any way, this was new territory for him. However, saying that, the one person who was always the anomaly in his otherwise consistent ways was John Watson. John was the only person in the entire world who Sherlock thought of as a friend. John was the only person who had managed to live with him for so long before giving up - John was showing absolutely no signs of wanting to move out and away from their strange life together. John was the only person who didn't irritate him more than 80% of the time.

Was he attracted to John though? He really wasn't sure, having not allowed himself to fall victim to the world of attraction since he was a young teen. There was always something more important going on in his life, and the normal adolescent years of crushes, unrequited love and then often very much requited lust had somehow passed him by. He had reached his mid thirties with no real understanding of how this world worked, and he was unsure that he really wanted to know.

John stirred suddenly, raising his head from the table, and stared blearily in Sherlock's direction. His face was a mess, he looked absolutely ridiculous and Sherlock couldn't help but smirk at the confused, drunken stare on the doctor's face.

"Where'd Greg go?" John asked, trying to stand up. Before he knew what he was doing, Sherlock had leapt up out of his chair and was by his side, helping him to his feet and holding him as he swayed slightly.

"Home. You need to go to bed and sleep this off," Sherlock said, wrapping one arm around his shoulders and cupping his hand into John's armpit, in an attempt to move John towards the stairs. He then suddenly realised - stairs. Not feeling up to carrying the doctor to his room, he changed tactics and shifted John towards the living room.

"On second thoughts - sofa," he muttered, as they reached their destination and Sherlock helped John to sit on the edge of the furniture. John grinned vacantly at Sherlock and pulled him down. The suddenness of the move surprised Sherlock and he was unable to stop himself from falling to sit beside John, blinking at their proximity.

"Youra good friend, sh'lock," John mumbled, leaning into Sherlock, who froze, his mind going blank as John placed a hand on his leg. "You know I really love you... as a friend... obvioush..."

John raised his head off of Sherlock's shoulder and stared at him for a few moments, as if suddenly surprised to find him so close to him. Sherlock still couldn't move, still completely alarmed at the situation he found himself in, and it was because of this that he barely reacted when John moved forward suddenly, kissing him firmly on the lips.

This only lasted two seconds, before Sherlock's brain leapt into action and, easily pushing the inebriated man off him and, conveniently, into a lying down position on the sofa, he jumped up, quickly grabbing some blankets and flinging them over his friend. "Sleep. Now," he ordered, quickly running into the kitchen to fetch John's water and a bowl. "If you need to be sick, use this. Drink some more water. I'm... I'm going to bed, I'll see you in the morning."

"Sher-"

"Goodnight, John," Sherlock said firmly, glaring at his friend. John looked suddenly scared, and Sherlock, not wanting to say, or do, anything that he might later regret, left John with haste for the second time that night.

* * *

**So sorry for the delay in updating. I've been quite busy, and I feel a little rusty too, so I hope this chapter is okay. It was a little bit of a filler chapter to be honest, necessary to help the story move along. Next chapter will explain why Sherlock reacts the way he did, will explain the John/Lestrade looks and will get a little bit angsty. But, as always, there will be a happy ending. I can't do anything else! Please review, I love them so much. Thank you so much for the reviews already received :D E x**


	3. Chapter 3

Days quickly turned into weeks, and Sherlock realised that John had no memory at all of his clumsy attempt at kissing the consulting detective. At first he'd presumed that John was avoiding the subject, but the awkwardness that existed between them seemed to be fuelled only by John's half-confession in the pub that night - which the doctor clearly _did _remember - and he couldn't help but feel slightly annoyed that he had not been given a chance to have it out with John about it all. There was hardly any point in bringing it up if John himself didn't remember - his immediate response would be something along the lines of "Jesus, I must have been pissed" and that would be end of discussion.

About three weeks after the disastrous night in the pub, as things were starting to get back to a semblance of normality between the two of them (well, as normal as they'd ever been), John appeared in the kitchen one evening while Sherlock was mid-experiment and informed him that he was off out and wasn't likely to be home until morning.

"Date?" Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow as he removed his goggles.

John blushed slightly but shook his head. "N-no. No, just going out for a meal, a couple of drinks. You know."

"Hmm," Sherlock said, regarding his friend for a few seconds, but his body language was giving very little away. "Have fun then."

John nodded, opened his mouth as if about to say something else, before promptly closing it again, turning on his heel and pretty much marching out of their flat. Sherlock stared at the door for a while after he had left, before returning to his experiment for a few minutes, getting steadily more annoyed with it before exclaiming loudly and sweeping several beakers off the table in exasperation. The rather pleasing sound of shattering glass did very little to assuage his bad mood.

He had been forced to accept, over the last few days, that his feelings for John were anything but platonic - hence his sudden interest in a possible romance between his flatmate and Lestrade, and the gnawing feeling of nausea in the pit of his stomach now that John was out with a possible date - and yet, he had very little idea of what to do next. It should have been easy, really - he knew he was in a reasonable position, knowing that his feelings were, or had been, reciprocated - yet he felt completely out of his depth. Should he mention the aborted kiss to John? Should he declare his... whatever it was he was feeling to him? Should he just embrace him at some interval and hope that he didn't make an absolute tit of himself? It was making his head hurt, making him unable to concentrate on anything else, and he knew that it needed to be sorted, sooner rather than later if possible.

* * *

"I've been thinking," John said slowly, as the two men wandered aimlessly in the general direction of Greg's flat. "About what you said to me, a few weeks back."

Greg pursed his lips, staring resolutely at the ground in front of him. "What particular thing was that?" he asked.

John scoffed. "You know exactly what I'm talking about, Greg," he muttered. "That time you effectively propositioned me."

There was a short, awkward silence, before the Detective Inspector cleared his throat. "Yeah, well, I was quite drunk at the time-"

"If I'd said yes," John interrupted him, slowing his pace now as they approached the park they would have to walk through to reach their final destination. "Would it have just been that one time, for you?"

Greg exhaled, his breath misting out in front of him, and he came to a complete stop at the park gates, John moving around to stand in front of him. His gaze was intense, and Lestrade felt momentarily entranced by their sudden closeness, the doctor's rather powerful stare consuming him in the cold night air.

"I don't know," he said finally, breathlessly, feeling somewhat confused. "It's a difficult question to answer when it's based on an event that never occurred. I don't know how either of us would have reacted..." He trailed off as John took a step closer to him, placing one hand on each of Greg's arms, fingers tightening on his muscles, the proximity overwhelming him.

"John, what are you..."

"Maybe that's the problem," John breathed. "Neither of us know what it would be like... maybe it would be the best thing we'd ever done..."

"John, stop this," Greg said, a note of firmness now evident in his voice. "It's not me you want, is it? You're still head-over-heels for Sherlock, everyone can see that."

John shook his head dismissively. "Maybe I'm just infatuated with the man because he's so brilliant. I'm not destined to end up with someone as amazing, as clever as him. Maybe my fate lies with someone like you."

"Oh, charming," Greg murmured. "You sound more and more like him every day."

John growled. "Can we please, just, stop talking about my sodding flatmate and concentrate on us, here and now?" he asked, almost pleadingly. "I just want to know what it would be like, if it could work between us... don't you?"

Greg sighed. "Yes, I do," he admitted, but as John moved ever closer, he pulled back. "But I'm not going to find out, John. You're trying to push Sherlock out of your mind, and focus on someone else who you know wants you, just to stroke your ego. I told you already, John - give him time. I'm pretty sure the feeling is mutual, he just needs to find that out for himself."

John's eyes were ablaze with something that looked startlingly like fury. "Are you seriously turning me down?" he asked, quietly and dangerously. "After-"

Greg rolled his eyes and, not allowing himself to think about it, sacrificing himself to make the hugest of points he could think of, he ducked his head back in to meet John's, kissing him firmly on the lips. Startled, John opened his mouth and Greg took the advantage, pressing his tongue against John's, moving his hands to John's hips and pulling him closer as he crudely nipped on his lower lip. It was fast, it was messy, and it was over in a matter of seconds as John pulled away, staring at his friend.

"See?" Greg said, panting slightly. "You don't want this. Not with me. Do you get it, now?"

John just continued to stare, and then his eyes widened even more, his gaze moving to just over Greg's shoulder. As he turned to see what had caught his attention, he caught a glimpse of a tall, dark figure moving away in the distance, hands shoved in pockets, dark curls evident in the glare from the streetlight.

"Oh bugger," Greg groaned, as John huffed out a sigh.

"Shit," John agreed. "Thanks, Greg," he added. "Think you can..."

Greg gave him a half smile. "I'm sure I can make my own way home," he replied. "Hope I haven't ruined things for you... again."

"He has no right to be angry," John said quietly, watching the man walk out of eyesight. "He effectively turned me down." He approached his friend and gently squeezed Greg's hand. "I'm sorry," he said, his eyes open and honest. "I feel like I've used you."

"You haven't," Greg said. "I stopped you from doing that."

One last small, apologetic smile, and John was gone, making his way quickly towards his own flat. Greg watched him go, before turning back towards the park, sighing softly to himself as he trudged home.

* * *

Mrs Hudson was busy with her ironing when she heard a loud bang as the door flew open. Startled, she rushed to the hall, peeking her hand around the door as she saw a flurry of long black coat and an angry consulting detective making his way up the stairs.

"Sherlock!" she exclaimed. "What's all that racket?"

Sherlock turned on his heel, his eyes flashing and Mrs Hudson felt somewhat alarmed as he advanced on her.

"You never told me this, did you?" he said menacingly, removing his gloves in a rather sinister fashion. "You never told me that once you open your heart, you get hurt - so hurt, it's unbearable?"

"Sh-Sherlock," she stuttered. "What on earth-"

"'Ooh, Sherlock, why don't you just tell him how you feel? Why don't you go and find him? He'll be ever so happy Sherlock, he obviously loves you!"' Sherlock mimicked his landlady, his face curled into a sneer, and Mrs Hudson backed towards her own flat slightly, her mind racing, trying to piece together what he was saying.

"John? But he... what's he done now?"

A noise at the door signalled the doctor's imminent return, and Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her.

"Why don't you ask him yourself?" he hissed, before spinning back around and heading up to his flat once again. Mrs Hudson tried to catch her breath before John came rushing in, his face bright red from a mixture of the cold and exertion.

"Oh, hello Mrs Hudson. Is Sherlock home?"

"John," she said. "What on earth has happened? Sherlock's in such a bad mood dear, he'd gone out to find you and... where were you? What happened?"

John stared at her. "Mrs Hudson, are you okay? You look like you're about to cry. What did he say to you?"

Mrs Hudson brought her hand to her mouth, shaking her head ever so slightly. "Oh, don't worry about me dear," she insisted. "You know what he gets like when he's angry."

John inhaled. "But why's he angry, and why with you?" he asked gently, placing a hand on her arm and trying to calm her down. The older lady looked practically shell-shocked and, aside from his general curtness, John couldn't fathom why Sherlock would have reacted to the poor woman in such a way as to upset her like this.

"John, dear," Mrs Hudson said, steeling herself and fixing John with a suddenly hard stare. "What did you do to upset Sherlock? I sent him out looking for you, after he told me how he felt."

John blinked at her. "How... he felt?"

"Yes, of course dear. After you kissed him the other night, well, I think you sent him into a bit of a tizzy. You know how he gets, dear, that ridiculous brain of his can't compute emotions like most normal people, and he needed some time to get his head around things..."

"Sorry, what?" John asked, still stuck on the first part of what his landlady had said. "After I _kissed _him?"

Mrs Hudson looked startled. "Oh. Oh that's right," she said, her eyes slightly unfocused as she remembered. "He did say that you were drunk..."

"SHERLOCK!" John roared, immediately heading up the stairs. Mrs Hudson dithered in her doorway, unsure of the best course of action, before deciding to just let the boys get on with it and to listen out for if she heard one too many pieces of crockery being smashed in anger.

* * *

**I feel like writing a good old John v Sherlock argument scene. And that is what's coming up. It'll be fun! Still promising a happy ending for these two by the way. And apologies that this is taking so long to update. Life is getting in the way somewhat. Hope you enjoyed this chapter, please review if you would be so kind :) This is likely to go into five or six chapters now, just so you're all aware x**


	4. Chapter 4

"Sherlock, I know you're in there," John growled, pressing his ear up to the bedroom door to try and hear any signs of movement. "Open this bloody door RIGHT now."

Nothing. He sighed and took a step away, sizing up the wooden door, trying to decide if he would risk breaking it down. He didn't want to allow Sherlock to disappear inside himself, refuse to talk about anything at all. He knew he needed to catch him before it was too late. Waiting until tomorrow, or even later on in the evening, wasn't an option.

"Sherlock, I swear to God, I will break this door down if I have to," John yelled, hoping for a reaction. "You're not getting away with this. Not this time. We need to talk, now."

The silence was really beginning to grate on the doctor now, and he moved forward once again, hoping that the last shot in his arsenal would do the trick.

"Why on earth didn't you tell me that I kissed you?"

He wasn't absolutely sure, but he thought he heard a sigh from within his friend's room. A few seconds later, he definitely heard footsteps before he finally heard the sound of the door unlocking. John braced himself for the onslaught that he was sure would follow.

He wasn't disappointed.

"And what if I had John? Hmm?" Sherlock appeared almost gracefully from his bedroom, dressed immaculately as ever, a hard stare emanating from him that made John feel briefly anxious. "What if I had said 'Oh, John, before I forget, you attempted to shove your tongue down my throat the other day. Want to talk about it?'"

The doctor inhaled, before drawing himself up to his full height - not that it even nearly competed with Sherlock's lanky frame - and fixing him with an equally frosty gaze. "Then I would have felt embarrassed, but I would have eventually asked you how you felt about it, and explained that I was completely off my face and I would have promised that it would never happen again."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Hmm."

"Hmm?" John asked, exasperated now. "Why, what did you think I would do? Completely freak out and run away? Accuse you of lying? Move in with Greg? What?"

"Ah yes. Greg," Sherlock said. "Looks like you two were getting _very _comfortable with each other earlier. Just as I had originally suspected. I should never second-guess myself you know, I'm almost always right. Any feelings you might have had for me were clearly borne from a hero-worship you have of me; Greg is clearly the -"

"Okay, just, hold up a minute Sherlock," John said, trying to keep up with his mad friend's verbal diahorrea. "There is nothing going on between me and Greg."

"Oh please, John," Sherlock spat, his eyes flashing in what John was sure looked like anger, or some variant thereof. "Do you passionately kiss everyone who you have nothing going on with? You know that I saw you, why lie?"

Chewing his lip, John desperately tried to read Sherlock's face. He had already put himself out there before with the detective, only to get heartily rejected. He wasn't sure he could cope with doing it again. The flash in Sherlock's eyes was gone; now all that was there was cold, dispassionate interest.

"No," he muttered. "I don't. But, I can assure you, Sherlock, that there is nothing going on between me and Lestrade."

"Reject you, did he?" Sherlock mocked, his mouth upturned in an unpleasant sneer. John suddenly felt a raging desire to punch his friend in his stupid mouth, and subconsciously put his right hand behind his back, in an attempt to stop himself from doing just that.

"No, no, he didn't." John turned away, suddenly desperate for a drink and to avoid the conversation that he knew was about to happen. He really did not want to lose the weird but incredibly powerful friendship that he had with Sherlock, and he feared that one more embarrassing moment between them could sound the death knell of their relationship. Sherlock, however, seemed almost itching for a fight, and began to goad the doctor.

"Poor John, so used to getting just what, or who, he wants, rejected by an average-looking guy like Lestrade. Must have hit you really hard, hmm? Bet that didn't happen back in your army days, bet you could have had your pick of anyone there, man or woman. But now the years are passing, you're not as fit as you once were..."

"Alright, shut up!" John banged his fist on the table, glaring up at the insufferable detective. The sharp sound startled Sherlock and he immediately quietened, not expecting a reaction as quick as that.

"You want to know, Sherlock? You really want to know? And so help me god, if this kills whatever the hell it is we have, between us, then this is YOUR bloody fault," he growled, now clutching onto the edge of the wooden table separating the two men.

Sherlock said nothing, continuing to watch him, and John took that as a signal to continue. Breathing in, trying to calm himself down, he closed his eyes tightly shut, not wanting to look at Sherlock if he could possibly help it.

"Yes, I came onto Greg," he began. "He had got drunk a few weeks back, and had expressed an interest in me. I brought it up, and asked him what would have happened if I'd agreed to go along with it. He was hesitant," he sighed, realising how unfair he had been on Lestrade, knowing how he felt about him. "But he admitted that, under any other circumstances, he would have happily taken up my offer of seeing what could... happen between us."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "So what were the circumstances that prevented him from doing so?" he asked. "Or rather, that should have prevented him from doing so, seeing as I caught you in a rather-"

"He was proving a point," John sighed, exasperated. "He knew I didn't really want him, and he was kissing me to show me that. He succeeded."

There was silence. The pieces were finally beginning to fall into place in Sherlock's head; the cogs were slowly turning, and suddenly everything made sense again.

"So... he knew that it was... someone else you wanted?" he asked, a small note of hope in his voice.

John opened his eyes, to be met with a surprisingly open, shy yet honest look in the detective's eyes. It felt as if he was seeing him properly for the first time, the cynical, calculating look replaced by one of anticipation and... longing?

John shook his head slightly, feeling so confused. This was the man that had walked out on him when he'd attempted to confess his feelings previously, had apparently been the recipient of a kiss from him but hadn't thought to mention it, and now here he was, looking for all the world like he was as interested in John as he was in him. It didn't make any sort of sense... but then, when had it ever with the great consulting detective?

"Sherlock," John breathed, eyes widening. "I don't know if I can cope with this. You're playing with my emotions to the point that I can barely stand it. What on earth do you want from me?"

* * *

**Cliched ending - sorry!**

**And huge apologies for taking forever to update, and only having a rather short update to show for it. One more chapter to go, and there shall be smut, I promise. What I cannot promise is when I will update, as real life is rather getting in the way, but I will definitely aim to do it within the month. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed, please feel free to review (as they make me beam) or favourite, or follow, as they also make me really happy :) x**


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